


Wild Horses

by thesalmondean



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gap-Filler, Gaslighting, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, So much angst, canon compliant through 1x10, this will be a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-01-05 01:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18355997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesalmondean/pseuds/thesalmondean
Summary: "All my life, the system has put me at the mercy of criminals. I'm just trying to survive it."In June, 2008, Michael lived through two traumatic experiences that forever changed him. Michael's attempts to heal his wounds, both physical and emotional, would be thwarted at every turn by external manipulations in the form of Jesse Manes. This story will span the decade leading up to the pilot episode of the show.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "No sweeping exit or offstage lines  
> Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind"  
> \- Keith Richards / Mick Jagger

**June 7, 2008**

They didn’t speak again that night, after the car burned with those girls inside. Michael left alone, not sure where to go, while Max and Isobel left together, headed to a home that was stable and warm; loving. Michael, who remembered past moments of watching them drive away and feeling tinges of jealousy instead now felt relief. For the first time in his memory he was glad to have no home, no family. He was glad to be alone.

He was taking his own solace in driving aimlessly away from Roswell. Empty nail polish remover bottles rattling around the floorboard of his truck as he took turn after turn down marked and unmarked country roads, the washboard surfaces shaking his truck and vibrating painful arcs up his arm from his shattered hand. The physical pain returning full force now that the shock of what happened with Isobel, and Rosa, was waning. It was easier to deal with the physical pain, then to think about how Isobel of all people could be so cruel and heartless; a murderer. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of her, gripping Rosa like that, her eyes dark and strange and so unlike the Isobel he knew…

Michael drove what felt like endless miles trying to outrun the events of the night until he finally hit a dead-end. A gate across the road (if he could call it a road; it was more like an overgrown two-track path) blocked his progress. Michael stared at the gate, bright red in the headlights of his truck. A sign riddled with bullet holes was posted proclaiming private property – Foster Ranch property at that. Michael let out a small laugh at that irony. No matter how far he tried to run, he could never get away from his earth-bound origin.

Exhaling, Michael turned off his truck, killing the headlights and sitting in silent pain while his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.

The moon was waxing crescent, barely casting any light into the night, but there was enough for Michael to just make out the hulking shadow of the mountains to the west, looming over him just before the night sky appeared above them. A sky full of stars. It was beautiful, and any other night Michael might have had the energy to marvel at the beauty. There were precious few things he might miss if ever he left Earth, and the night sky would be one of those things ( _Alex…_ ). There might be stars on his home planet (certainly there were), but they wouldn’t be the same stars.

Cradling his hastily bandaged left hand tenderly to his chest and reaching across his body, Michael used his uninjured right hand to open his door, tumbling out awkwardly and hissing as the impact of his feet on the ground sent a shock through his system, the sensation in his left hand pulsing with each beat of his heart.

It was late, he could tell by how high the moon was in the sky; the night air was crisp and cool ( _it’s cold at night…_ ). Michael clenched his jaw against the memories of just hours earlier when things had felt so hopeful; when he’d tasted, for a tragically short time, true happiness; contentedness.

Aside from Max and Isobel, Michael had never in his life felt such care, such affection as what Alex had shown him. Sex before had always just been a biological desire – one he was happy to oblige in. But with Alex it had been…different. It had been _more_. So much more. It had felt _right_ ( _destined_ …).

Their hesitant, slowly blossoming friendship the last few months had been a salve to the festering wound that was Michael’s entire life up to that point. They’d always known each other, of course. Or known about each other. But things the last few months had been different. A connection had been made and Michael had no idea how to define it, or explain it. He just wanted more of it.

Alex was something outside the norm for him; the first time he’d allowed himself any sort of emotional closeness with a person not his sibling. It was a closeness he’d intentionally fostered; a closeness he had exerted energy to maintain. Alex was the first human he’d ever wanted to know as more than just a name and a face in school and around town. He’d finally experienced a true connection only to have the moment violently ripped away. He really didn’t know when, or if, he’d see Alex again.

_Alex. Was he okay?_

Shaking his head Michael pushed away all thoughts apart from the moment he was in. Dropping the tailgate on his truck he carefully climbed into the back, pulling out the last of the bottles of acetone he had on hand, using his teeth to twist off the top and gulping half of it before taking a breath. The numbing effect was immediate, and Michael sighed with relief as the chemical dulled his nerves, the painful throbbing in his hand fading to the background. Seizing the opportunity, Michael attempted to one-handedly lay out his sleeping bag in the bed of his truck. All his stuff was haphazardly strewn about, a jumbled mess.

Pulling at the sleeping bag to straighten it out, Alex’s hooded vest suddenly appeared from within the folds. Startled backwards as if stumbling upon a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike, Michael stared at it briefly before he leaned forward and grabbed at it, clutching it to his face and inhaling the familiar scent of Lava soap and mint.

A violent anger suddenly washed over him, and Michael cursed out loud, angrily throwing the vest down to the bed of the truck. There was such a deep ache in the center of his chest that was more painful than any amount of shattered bones in his hand and he hated the feeling. Hated every decision he ever made when it came to Alex Manes; hated every damn emotion his human form was cursed with.

His attraction to Alex had snuck up on him, catching Michael off guard and unprepared for the feelings he stirred within him. He’d always thought Alex interesting, and likeable. They’d shared a few classes over the years, working together on projects when necessary because no one else wanted to work with either of them. Michael, a sometimes outcast because he had no family and no home, and Alex a sometimes outcast because of his sexuality, whether rumored or stated. But Michael didn’t care about the rumors about Alex, and Alex didn’t seem to care about the rumors about Michael; they certainly never talked about either thing ( _until one day they did_ …).

It was only recently that Michael had begun to feel more than just passing friendship for Alex…he wasn’t sure how to explain it, or define it. It was new and exciting and like nothing he’d experienced in his life. He cared about Alex, a lot. Maybe more than he cared about Max and Isobel, or at least in a different way than the way he cared about Max and Isobel. The simple fact was, Michael wasn’t used to caring about anyone or anything other than his siblings and so it gnawed at him, the growing desire to be near Alex, so see him or talk to him or just be in his orbit. And now? After what had just happened between them? Now he craved that closeness even more; craved talking to him, craved seeing him; craved touching him and kissing him; craved feeling Alex touch and kiss him back…

Taking a deep breath, Michael toed off his boots and gingerly slid into the sleeping bag, propping his bloodied and broken hand on the rising slope of the wheel well, quiet tears filling his eyes.

Alex…Rosa and those other girls…Isobel…his own hand…it was too much for one person ( _alien_ ) to handle.

He desperately wanted to finish off the bottle of nail polish remover in an attempt to numb all the remaining feelings, but he also knew he’d really want it come morning; if he managed to sleep at all.

He was worried. All the stuff with Isobel had been a momentary distraction and Michael was in no way ready to deal with what he’d been a part of with her and Max, but Alex he could and did worry about.

After Jesse had smashed his hand, he’d been unceremoniously thrown from the shed, his sleeping bag and other belongings thrown out behind him before the door had been closed again. He’d heard Alex’s plea’s but they were distant, the rush of blood in Michael’s head drowning out almost everything else as he'd stared at the mangled, bloody mess that used to be his hand. He hadn't been sure how long he'd sat shirtless in the dusty, dry grass around the shed. Long enough for the searing pain to ease to a low throb that Michael could just barely tolerate if he didn’t move too much or too fast.

When the door to the shed had eventually flung open, Michael had started, the sudden movement sending a shock of pain straight up his arm ending in bright white flashes spotting across his field of vision; it had felt like his brain might explode from the power behind it and he'd had to swallow the urge to vomit. Michael, from his seated position against the wall of shed, had watched as Jesse’s legs appeared in his periphery before slowly walking past and disappearing from view. Michael hadn’t dared look up at him, or follow him with his eyes.

When Jesse had gone, Michael had called out weakly for Alex. There was a long moment of silence where Michael had entertained the thought that Jesse had actually killed his own son, and he started to panic. But then he'd heard the scrambling noise of footsteps on the wood floor and then Alex had appeared before him, crouching next to him, hands up, hovering around him but not touching him. He'd kept repeating the same words over and over; _what should I do, how can I help_ …

Michael had nodded towards his stuff, lying in a heap in the dirt. Alex had seemed to understand, picking up the pile of stuff and tossing it into the back of the truck, pulling the rest of Michael’s clothes from the mess first.

He’d helped Michael finish dressing, not speaking as big, fat tears leaked from his eyes, his eyeliner leaving dark tracks down his cheeks. If Michael had had any energy left in him, he’d have wiped those tears away with his good hand.

Alex, after putting Michael’s boots on him, had fallen to the dirt with a defeated whimper.

“I’m sorry,” he’d finally said, eyes downcast.

Michael had shook his head.

“Not your fault,” he'd managed.

Alex had leveled a disbelieving look at him then, his face so full of torment that Michael wanted nothing more than to comfort him. But the thought of moving his body had sent waves of nausea through him; he'd barely been able to hold it together after slipping on his shirt and jacket.

“I should…we should go to the hospital,” Alex had said then, quietly.

“No,” Michael had replied, more emphatically than he might have under normal circumstances, “I mean, no. It would be bad. For me.”

Alex had arched his brow slightly and it had looked so normal, so Alex-like, that Michael had involuntarily cracked a tiny smile.

“You do it,” Michael'd added after a brief pause, “you have to have a First Aid Kit around here.”

In the end, Alex had carefully (and with endless apologies) wrapped Michael’s hand with every inch of gauze to be found in the military grade first aid kit, but not before he'd forced him to take eight ibuprofen (Michael had obligingly taken them, even though the medication had no effect on his alien biology). When Alex had finished, Michael’s hand looked like a giant ball of cotton candy….bloody cotton candy.

“Will _you_ be okay?” Michael had asked, after the worst was over and Alex had helped him into his truck.

He was barely holding it together, the pain searing through him causing him to lose his breath. But he had to hold it together. He couldn’t let Alex know how bad it really was, how worried he was about what else Jesse might do…

“The worst is over,” had been Alex’s seemingly casual reply and Michael had clenched his jaw against a wave of rage.

This was nothing new, that had been the subtext of Alex’s reply, and Michael hated Jesse Manes so much he'd almost forgot about the pain in his hand. Almost.

The bruises were starting to appear; a handprint on Alex’s neck and jaw, a purple and blue spot on his cheek. There was a cut at his hairline that Michael was just noticing. Who knew what other injuries lie beneath his clothing. Michael’s immense hatred for Jesse Manes had surged through him again, overpowering the pain in his body for another brief, blissful moment.

“You promise you’ll go to the doctor?” Alex had warily eyed the ball of gauze that encased Michael’s hand, blood already soaking through in spots.

“Yes,” Michael had lied. Easily.

And that had been it. Michael had left; left Alex with that man ( _monster_ ).

Wrapped in his sleeping bag in the bed of his truck staring up at the stars Michael could almost pretend it was just another night. But it wasn’t.

Turning his head, Michael eyed Alex’s vest lying in a heap. Reaching out his right hand he pulled it to him, pressing it against his body before staring up at the starry sky and wondering how in the hell anything would ever be okay again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thanks for reading! I was not joking around when I said this would be angst-filled with a side of extra angst, but I hope that won't deter you from continuing to read. I am in the middle of writing Chapter 1 right now (it will be very long - I tend to write long chapters) but I wanted to post this now to garner interest and hopefully gauge reaction. So thank you again for reading! I'm on tumblr at [apositivelifeaffirmingway](https://apositivelifeaffirmingway.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to come see me over there!


	2. The Morning After

When the sun finally rose, waking Michael from his restless sleep, there were a blissful few seconds where he didn’t remember anything from the day before; except Alex and That Kiss ( _the tenderness, the care_ , _the intimacy_ )... But no sooner had he recalled the moment then his hand sent a stab of pain up his arm and he was brutally reminded of everything that came after.

Inhaling sharply, reflexive tears springing up in his eyes Michael sat up quickly cradling his mangled hand, the white gauze now various shades of red and pink. The bleeding seemed to have stopped sometime in the night, but the pain…the pain was excruciating.

Michael, panting and gritting his teeth, sucked air in through his mouth and blew it back out again in short bursts as he blinked back the encroaching black fog that threatened his vision. He was very glad he’d had the wherewithal to save some acetone for this very reason.

Now it was light out, he was better able to take in the disaster that was his few belongings, strewn carelessly about the truck bed. Twisting his body his eyes searched the jumbled mess in the back of the truck for the half bottle of nail polish remover he knew was remaining.

With his uninjured hand, Michael patted at the nearest piles of stuff, seeking the familiar shape. He could feel panic start to bubble low in his chest the longer it took to find the bottle. A panic based in fear – fear of the pain never ending...

Finally his hand landed on the recognizable shape, buried beneath the edge of his sleeping bag; he was practically lying on top of it.

As he had done the night before, Michael used his teeth to twist the top off before he swallowed the remaining liquid in three large gulps, gasping for breath when he’d emptied the bottle. The numbing sensation was almost immediate and Michael took quick advantage, scrambling from the cocooned warmth of the sleeping bag into the cool, early morning air. That was when he realized he had his arm slung through one of the armholes of Alex’s vest. He’d somehow managed to half put it on in his sleep and now he was standing it hung off his right shoulder, the loose material flapping in the light breeze. Not sure what else to do, Michael slipped it off and tossed to the truck bed, adding it the mess of things.

Usually, Michael was tidy with the few belongings he had; he’d roll up the sleeping bag and make sure his limited wardrobe was as neatly folded as possible before storing it in the large duffel he’d gotten from the Army Surplus store; but his injured hand prevented him doing any of that on this particular morning and so he tried to kick everything into the mouth of the sleeping bag before folding the open end of the bag beneath the weight of the contents.

Struggling with his one good hand he slipped into his boots then hopped down to the ground, grimacing as the jolt reverberated in the shattered bones in his hand. Taking a moment to let the wave of nausea pass ( _he really didn’t want to puke up the last of the acetone_ ), he found a decently sized rock and with his powers he moved it into the back of his truck and onto the top of his stuffed sleeping bag. He didn’t need to lose anything on the drive back to town, and he hoped that the previous night he’d not lost anything either. Though if he could find his way back he supposed he’d see pretty quickly if anything had been blown out of the truck bed the night before.

Feeling weak from the effort (and realizing he hadn’t eaten any food for almost 24 hours), he sighed heavily before climbing gingerly into the cab of his truck. Resting his head against the back window Michael breathed in a few times, letting the surging arcs of pain fade to a somewhat manageable ache, before he started up the truck.

That was when he realized it.

His composition book, with all his drawings and calculations. It hadn’t been in the back of the truck with all his other belongings Alex tossed in there from the shed.

A new panic seized him then, and a new wave of nausea overtook him that had nothing to do with the now momentarily forgotten pain in his hand.

Michael didn’t have a permanent address let alone steady income to pay a monthly bill. Both things were reasons he couldn’t get a cell phone from one of the major companies. Instead, he had to buy a generic phone and rely on prepaid calling cards. It wasn’t ideal, but at least he had something. Though it really didn’t matter as no one other than Max or Isobel ever called him anyway.

Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain shooting up his arm with each frantic movement, Michael held his broken hand to his chest while he leaned across the bench seat of his truck to pop open the glove compartment, pulling out and tossing to the floorboards his insurance and registration papers, an actual pair of gloves, and a Swiss Army knife before his hand finally fell onto the cool, slick plastic of the cheap flip phone.

Groaning softly as he pushed himself upright, he flipped the phone open with his thumb and pressed the power button, softly chanting words of encouragement to the inanimate object as it started up. He had no idea how much battery it had left ( _if any_ ), and he didn’t even know if he had any minutes left on his card. He rarely used the thing. He only had it because Max had insisted, even though they were almost always together anyway, and even though they could, in times of intensity or serious trouble, call on each other psychically like Isobel had done the night before…

Isobel.

_Rosa…the other girls…they were all dead. They’d burned them…he’d burned them…_

Michael closed his eyes against the memory of the events of the night prior, but that didn’t stop the memory from playing to its conclusion in vivid, colorful detail. Michael could practically taste the smoke and burning fuel. Suddenly, another wave of nausea crested and this time Michael couldn’t hold it back. Tossing the cell phone to the seat beside him he scrambled with his good hand to open the door, barely getting it wide enough before he was heaving and puking, splattering his boots and the doorframe of his truck with stomach bile and acetone.

“Fuck,” Michael panted, spitting the taste of bile from his mouth before gulping in a mouthful of air.

“Fuck,” he repeated, louder this time, more angrily, before closing the door and rolling down the window.

Leaning his head against the edge of the open window, he closed his eyes as the warm sun and the slight morning breeze rustled across his face and ruffled his hair, tendrils sticking to the slight sheen of sweat that had popped up on his forehead.

“Fuck,” he whispered, wishing in that moment that he were anywhere else, that he was anyone else.

Michael had wished a lot in his youth for rescue, to find out his life was more than just that of an abandoned and abused ward of the state, but all those moments and wishes paled in comparison to the current wish. He wanted nothing more than to be saved from his misery. The physical misery, the psychological misery, the emotional misery. The last 24 hours had been both the best and worst of his entire life…

The cell phone was momentarily forgotten ( _not that it mattered, he didn’t have Alex’s number and what would he say? Hey, Alex, did you find my notebook with the spaceship drawings?_ ) as the swiftly rising, agonizing pain of the pulsing mass of flesh and bone wrapped in bloody gauze drove him to one specific task; getting more acetone as soon as possible.

* * *

 

For a brief moment, Michael thought he might be well and truly lost in the desert, the unmarked turns he’d taken the night before all looking very different in the light of day. But despite the lack of familiarity he managed to find his way to the highway that would take him back to Roswell.

The upside to his wandering homelessness was that he’d spent countless nights out in the desert, exploring nearly all the various roads and trails available to him. It kept him off the sheriff’s radar for one, and he loved the wide open space of the desert and the brilliance of the night sky. There were stars he wouldn’t be able to see if he was in town, but out in the desert, every star was impossibly bright, allowing him ample opportunity to imagine the world he’d come from, the world he felt he truly belonged to.

He hadn’t actually gone as far from town as he’d thought, and not twenty minutes later found himself on Main Street, Roswell. It was still early, just after 8 am, and as it was a Sunday, no shops were open yet. That suited Michael fine, it wasn’t like he had money to buy the things he needed.

Parking a few blocks from the local drugstore, Michael snaked his way through the back alleys to the rear entrance.

He’d had to resort to stealing before – but only when absolutely necessary, and never for as much stuff as he thought he’d need this time. Stealing was something he hated to do, but desperate times…and this was most certainly a desperate time. Michael knew, from occasional visits to ‘buy his sister nail polish remover’, that this particular drugstore had no security cameras except on the pharmacy counter – and Michael didn’t want or need any of those drugs. He wanted and needed acetone, and supplies to take care of his hand.

With extreme ease, Michael popped the simple lock on the back door with his mind and then draping a burlap sack he’d found in the alley over his head. He walked brusquely down the corridor from the back of the store to the front. He wasn’t sure if the pharmacy camera covered the hallway he was using, but he had to pass directly by the pharmacy counter so better safe than sorry.  

The bag he’d brought with him hanging from the crook of his left elbow (and the pressure sending plenty of painful signals to his brain), Michael cleaned off the shelf of all the bottles of acetone, taking a minute to open one and gulp the entire thing down as fast as possible. He took the empty bottle with him – the last thing he needed was to leave any trace of himself behind.

All the acetone in the store now in his possession, Michael moved on to the first aid supplies, ransacking anything and everything he thought he might possibly want or need. Rubbing alcohol, sterile pads, gauze bandages, a splint; he even grabbed a small sewing kit in case he need to give himself stitches. The bag, once he was done, was overflowing.

Getting back to his truck was trickier, the town was beginning to stir; early church goers heading to services, or headed to the few places in town that served breakfast – many of which were on Main Street. It took Michael twice as long to skulk back to his truck with his overflowing bag of supplies than it had taken him to sneak to the drugstore in the first place.

Once back at his truck, Michael unceremoniously dumped the supplies into the bed, digging out two bottles of acetone and downing one before twisting the top off the second in preparation, in case one didn’t do enough. His hand was completely numb and he wasn’t sure it was just from acetone; he could feel it pulsing with each beat of his heart, sending agonizing pulses of white hot pain up his arm. It was odd. His hand being devoid of sensation while the entirety of his arm ached deeply. Odd – but also he knew enough about anatomy and human physiology to know it was also a very bad sign ( _this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d patched himself up_ ).

It took a minute, but the acetone began to dull the pain; at least enough for Michael to get back into his truck and drive out to the edge of town, near the old, abandoned stockyards where there was more privacy. What he was about to do was going to be extremely painful and he didn’t want anyone interrupting or stumbling upon him.

Parking behind a rundown barn, out of sight of the barely traveled road that passed by, Michael set out the various supplies he’d acquired on the tailgate of his truck and mapped out the plan in his head, setting things down in order of use/need.

Downing one more entire bottle of acetone (his vision blurring slightly at the edges, undoubtedly from the amount of acetone he’d consumed the last 30 minutes, but the numbing sensation to his entire body a welcome relief nonetheless), he pulled out the blunt edge scissors and, after taking several long, deep breaths, started cutting away the gauze Alex had so thoroughly wrapped around his hand the night before. The blood had soaked through all the layers, drying into a hard crusty mass that was difficult to cut through.

Michael could ignore the pain at first as he focused on cutting through the material, but as he got nearer and nearer to the actual injuries, the pain flashed and flared and Michael actually blacked out for a moment. He didn’t lose consciousness, but his vision went dark as white flashes popped in the void, his skin screaming and seeming to want to crawl inside out of itself.

Stopping, he closed his eyes and breathed, willing it to end. The pain. He needed it to end because he wasn’t sure he could do it; he wasn’t sure he could get the rest of it off.

After a few minutes, the pain abating some, Michael looked to his injury; crusted, bloody gauze hung off him like the exoskeleton of some mutant crustacean. Gritting his teeth and willing his vision to focus, he summoned all the effort he could and with the power of his mind, exploded the remainder of the stiff, bloody bandages from his hand – then immediately passed out.

He wasn’t out for long (he didn’t think he was anyway) before he stirred and coughed into the dry dirt. Rolling onto his back Michael found himself staring up at the lowered tailgate of his truck. His left hand was pulsing white hot, and felt wet. With all the strength he possessed he raised his injured left hand to look and felt bile rise in his throat. Whatever clots had formed he’d managed to rip right off when he’d removed the bandages, and the wound was bleeding again. Not a lot, but enough that his wrist and jacket sleeve were wet with it, and large maroon-colored drops dotted the dry soil around him.

But what was more grotesque was what his hand looked like. It was brutishly deformed, his pinky and ring fingers bent at wrong, incorrect angles. On the back of his hand there was a giant indentation ( _a hole…it was a hole!_ ) where the hammer had hit; the skin ripped away, missing, and bones shattered and protruding all directions but the correct ones.

For a brief moment Michael lost all ability to think or feel or comprehend as he stared at the inside of his hand, which was now, for all intents and purposes, on the outside of his hand.

He stared, his mind numb to the trauma, both the sight of it, and the memory of it.

Rationally, a part of his brain was telling him he should feel surprised, or angry, or hurt that a trusted adult, a military man no less, could take a hammer to a teenager’s hand just because he had been discovered with said man’s son. But for Michael, it wasn’t all that extraordinary to consider and so he could easily disregard the rational thought; there was no surprise in what had happened. That was the more upsetting thing, when he thought about it later; that he almost expected to be treated as he had been. He expected hurt, and abuse. All his life it had been the default for him, the supposed trusted adult was in reality not worthy of trust, and would in fact harm you.

It was the primary reason Michael wanted off this planet for good.

The only reason Michael would even be tempted to stay, was Alex.  

But this…his hand…it was undoubtedly the most severe injury he’d sustained from any adult in his short life. It was an injury that – if he were still living in the group home, or if he’d managed to have been placed into a foster home for a short time – would have gotten him sent to a hospital for sure. The damage irreparable with only a first aid kit (even a military grade first aid kit) and if Michael had been taken to a hospital, more things than just a busted up hand would have been discovered.

“Small mercies,” Michael murmured to himself as he continued to examine the injury to his hand. He was fairly certain that surgery was the only thing that could properly repair the damage – but he also knew that was a nonstarter.

So was Max.

Michael had thought about going to Max; asking him to heal his hand. He’d thought about it several times in the last twelve or so hours.

But there were too many reasons not to ask. First, the thought of seeing him again after what they’d just done…Michael could not bring himself to face either Isobel or Max right now. Then there was Alex…

For one brief, shining afternoon, Michael had felt more at home, more accepted then he ever had before. He had been shown tenderness, and care. Maybe even love. Yeah, he and Alex barely knew each other but Michael would never deny that something about their connection was stronger than anything he’d felt since he, Max, and Isobel had emerged from the pods. Even still, Michael craved to be back in Alex’s orbit; just to be near him.

But Jesse Manes.

Michael had dared to hope, to let his guard down for one tender afternoon and the end result had been immeasurable, crippling pain and trauma. Michael needed ( _wanted_ ) to be reminded of the repercussions of that moment of happiness. Of that closeness. He wanted ( _needed_ ) to be reminded that there was no place for him here, on Earth. No matter how powerful his feelings for Alex, no matter how intense the draw to him. No matter how much he still wanted to be close to him…

So Michael would not have his hand healed. No, he knew what he had to do next, and he knew it would be even more excruciating than what he’d just endured. The litany of injuries he’d suffered over his childhood and early teen years (until he finally found freedom in a beat up old truck) allowed him to become very good at taking care of himself; of cleaning himself up. And later, when Max had figured out he had the power to heal, it was even easier to hide his wounds from outside eyes.  

Two hours, two bottles of acetone, and one more puking/fainting spell later, Michael had ‘repaired’ his hand, straightening the bones and sewing up the gash before wrapping it with clean gauze and bandages.

The task complete, Michael sat in the dirt and sitting back against one of the rear tires of his truck. He was panting, willing his racing heart to calm. He felt (and likely looked) pasty white, chilled from a sheen of sweat covering his entire body, his t-shirt sticking to his body and his hair plastered to his forehead.

The process had been arduous. More painful than anything else he’d experienced in his life. He had rudimentary knowledge of the bones of the hand, and even though he’d been practicing and honing his telekinesis skills the last several years, he found it far more difficult to rearrange his own hand bones then to move a 2 ton boulder.

But it was done. Messy though it was. All that was left was for him to find what he needed to fashion a hard cast. If he thought he could by with just a splint, he’d do that, but everything he’d just done to his own hand had made it all the more sensitive and fragile. It would never heal if he didn’t protect it with more than a plastic splint. What he wasn’t sure of was what he needed to make his own plaster cast.

Heading back into the main part of town (after one more bottle of acetone though Michael wasn’t sure it was even helping him anymore), he headed to the public library. Ignoring the judgmental stares of the patrons, Michael headed for the medical books and read up on what supplies he needed, and what he needed to do.

Three hours and a drive to Carlsbad and back, Michael had what he needed, courtesy of the Medical Center there. He hoped the theft in Carlsbad wouldn’t be connected to the Roswell drug store theft…as it was he was going to have to be careful about flashing his injured hand around. He wasn’t an obvious suspect, but if anyone took notice of the injury it might raise some flags. He’d managed to stay just under the radar of local authorities his entire young life – he didn’t want that to change now.

The remainder of the day Michael spent constructing the cast, using his good hand and his powers to attempt to wrap it as tightly, and neatly, as he could. The library book he’d ‘borrowed’ was very helpful, and Michael made plans to return it through the book drop the next morning.

Michael took his time, letting himself rest when the pain became too much, downing acetone at will. He was aware of the growing dulled sensations of all his nerves, and while it was good for the physical pain he was enduring, it was also good for the emotional pain he was also fighting. Because while the more urgent need was his hand, he hadn’t forgotten what he’d been a part of that night; what he and Max and Isobel had done; what Isobel had done.

What he’d done. The fire. Setting the car on fire. Setting _the_ _girls_ on fire.

Dealing with his hand was a necessity, but it was also a distraction. Michael knew a reckoning of his actions was coming. He knew he’d have to face Max and Isobel again. He knew he’d have to face seeing Liz.

Later that night, after he’d finished he cast and was lying in the back of his truck staring up at the stars, he remembered the missing notebook. Michael sighed into the night, steeling himself for the following day. Either Alex (or Jesse) had found it, or they hadn’t. Either Alex (or Jesse) had looked at it, or they hadn’t. At this point there was nothing Michael could do about either possibility, and so he decided he wasn’t going to spend any more time worrying about it. Not until he absolutely had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I suffered a personal tragedy last month and haven't had the time or emotional energy (or stability) to write much. I'm slowly getting there, but it is very slow. This chapter was intended to be longer and include more events but I've decided to post now and not to wait to finish it all. This chapter contains most of what I'd had written before the tragedy upended my life, and the next chapter will contain the remainder. You can expect subsequent chapters to be much longer than this one, and hopefully it won't be too many weeks between posting, either. Thank you for reading, and for your patience.


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